


212 Degrees

by Erisabesu (ErisabesuFic)



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Drama, M/M, XS - Freeform - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22396207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErisabesuFic/pseuds/Erisabesu
Summary: “There are things about Xanxus which are taken for granted.”  [2010.06.21]
Relationships: Superbi Squalo/Xanxus
Comments: 2
Kudos: 74





	212 Degrees

**“212 Degrees”**

◊

There are things about Xanxus which are taken for granted, Squalo observes.

For example, his well-stocked liquor cabinet, and the trademark glass of amber whiskey held in his hand. The fact that Xanxus can drink all day and all night and not get drunk is chalked up to his blatant masculinity; high alcohol tolerance fits right in with his swaggering walk and arrogant speech to complete the picture of a man with unbeatable strength, a man with infinite power and influence at his fingertips, a man who could one day rule all of Vongola—and therefore the world. His wealth is a matter of course, huge beds with layers upon layers of plush bedding, and rooms with elegant tapestries and fireplaces where he can sit in a wingback chair with his boots up, drinking alone until dawn by the firelight without the slightest need for sleep.

Xanxus’ contrariness, his fits of rage, his inclinations toward violence are to be expected. He’s the son of the Ninth, the leader of the Varia—a man no one would mess with and no one would cross. Even the regal Liger will recline at his feet, its striped head bent lower than that of his master, in deference, always.

Xanxus’ public portrait is so complete that no one bothers to wonder _why_ he does the things he does, or sustains such a specific environment. The steady stream of booze may be a sign of functioning alcoholism, but that’s hardly a surprise considering Xanxus’ troubled past. The rages stem directly from the nature of the flames he was born with, egged on by the booze or by restlessness in the downtime between assignments; the man has enough to be upset about. There’s no need to question it. _It’s just how he is._ And close enough to how he _was_ for the rest to accept what’s on the surface.

Squalo guesses at the underlying truth the summer Xanxus officially becomes the Boss of the Varia, the first time Xanxus’ cold hands wrap around his throat and squeeze in warning. After that, the warnings come thrown with glasses full of whiskey aimed at the back of his head, so Squalo isn’t able to confirm the truth until the following December in Novosibirsk, Russia, on the night before a meeting with an allied Family.

Levi and Bel are elsewhere on guard duty; there’s no one around to mark Squalo entering Xanxus’ room. The heater is on full blast, and he’s covered in bed with about twenty quilts while still wearing his boots and his uniform, his jacket buttoned up to his throat. The entire bottle of bourbon on the nightstand is empty, not even a drop left in the glass. It’s enough to make Squalo sweat standing still, so hot it’s uncomfortable to breathe.

There’s no longer any need to guess why Xanxus has been irritable and difficult since the mission to Russia was announced. But Squalo still locks the door behind him and slides under the blankets fully clothed as close as he dares, prepared for the consequences if his suspicions are even the slightest bit wrong.

“You fucking piece of _trash_ ,” is all Xanxus mutters as he rolls over onto Squalo’s body without preamble and burrows them down into the mattress, a survival instinct more than anything else.

The immediate exchange of body heat creates a veritable furnace under the blankets, Squalo’s hair soon damp on the pillows and his face flushed to the point of being feverish just from lying still together, fully clothed. Despite this, Xanxus still shivers every few minutes. Squalo’s chest aches from even this small taste of the kind of discomfort his Boss must have gone through, trapped inside a block of ice for eight years.

_Eight years._ A coldness so vast, penetrating so deep into his marrow that even for Xanxus there’s not enough booze and not enough rage to melt it.

No wonder the man never sleeps, with so much ice still inside him. Squalo tucks Xanxus’ head into the crook of his neck and twines their legs, rubbing his boot heel along the back of Xanxus’ calf to ease some of his shivers with the heat from friction.

The sensual suggestion accompanying these actions, however inadvertent it may have been, is all it takes for Xanxus to react as any man would. His strong hands press Squalo’s thighs open, grinding hips against hips in another kind of heat altogether. He doesn’t ask permission, simply takes, kindles, consumes; he chokes Squalo with every kiss and melts through the leather of their uniforms and into Squalo’s very core as if he could be an extension of the X-guns, body grasped tight in Xanxus’ searing palms and channeling all that Xanxus forces into him. Xanxus feeds on sweat and sex, on the racing thunder of their pulses until Squalo passes out, until he’s sated, until the bed in the room becomes hotter than the lowest level of Hell, hotter than when his temper blackens his skin in stripes of barebacked fury, hotter than the center of the sun.

Squalo eventually comes to with Xanxus curled against his back and emitting soft snores, sound asleep for the first time in months. A few hours later Xanxus wakes up sober for the first time in a year, a clear-eyed, gruff miracle Squalo bears witness to each successive morning for the duration of their time in Russia. Xanxus doesn’t say a single word, or acknowledge anything that goes on between them. But Squalo knows exactly what he needs to do next, for Xanxus, and for himself.

After Novosibirsk, Squalo pays a visit to Shamal. The man warns him that the fever-disease really can kill, that he shouldn’t trifle with it; Squalo points his sword under Shamal’s chin and threatens to renege his earlier offer and slice him to ribbons instead, only he uses more vivid expressions in their native Italian to get the message across.

Eventually Shamal sighs and runs a hand through his playboy hairstyle. He snatches the reward for this bargain—a lifetime member pass to the most elite Gentleman’s Club in Namimori—off the hospital bed between them. Then he gestures for Squalo to roll back his sleeve.

It’s a small price, compared to the Boss’ silent suffering.

Squalo returns to Varia headquarters with beads of sweat on his brow, an itchy insect bite on his forearm, and his temperature permanently elevated to match the purity of his resolve and the depth of his loyalty to one man: Xanxus.

For as long as they both shall live.

—

Ω


End file.
